Things among the clutter
Earlier today I was looking for something. I have noticed my bookshelves seem to be kind of organized in vertical segregation : the more important the books and things are, the higher they are located on the shelves. On the shelves closest to the floor, I have a bunch of randomly stacked old notebooks, papers and paperback books crammed into crannies. For whatever reason I decided to look through the old notebooks to check their contents. They were mostly from recent classes like Western Civ I (extensive notes on the Holy Roman Empires), random scribblings that I tend to make when bored during my observation times (methods, as it's called) at a city school on the near West side. Loose papers had been crammed in between the attached notebook papers, which I investigated. Syllabuses, old tests, a To Do list I put down for errands one day. And then something else. Isn't it hilarious? Something not that old, but seeming to be now for a variety of reasons...
I won't say from who by name, I won't say from where it came, I won't say the circumstances in which it was written because I AIN'T CRAZY. It just had a few lines of note on it ...
I know these have all been quick and sparse, but that's just how it is. Not much happens, nothing to write about. It's also because I prefer to write alone, which actually allows me very little time to do so.
You're who I'm thinking of. The time to spare is plentiful and it keeps drawing back to you. I miss you.
How can this be? How can one who once took the time out to say to another "I miss you and I am lonely without you" not be in the picture anymore? Just when you think you get over something, you hear that little voice of depression in the back of your mind. "Did you forget about me? Well I'm here and you are still my captive." Nothing remains of him because he's not here anymore. He never lived here, he had some things here but they are gone (I returned them to him). There have been others who have also been here, but nothing remains of them either. Why this deep sorrow? And now neither party will speak to one another, I have been replaced with someone else. Chances are the one who replaced me will be replaced as well eventually, but that will be a real disaster to unfold because she lives with him and all I offered in terms of support was a hoodie and a pair of socks. And the replacement says that we are not allowed to speak. He said he was sorry to be so blunt but he agreed. I bowed out. Far be it from me to bother anyone.
One day he will be alone again, perhaps he will think of me. And he will want to see me, a part of him surely will. Just maybe he will reach out, once again when he is at his most vulnerable and helpless, or he will get a third party to inform me of something when the next disaster strikes. That third party will say "Come with me", but I will say the hardest part of this revelation, my voice heavy and husky with emotion and torn feeling, my intellectual self clashing with the ego, which is "I can't."
"He will need you," the third party will say, imploring me to reconsider.
"No he won't," I will say. "He did once, but he won't anymore. But when you see him (third party) tell him ... No, nevermind. I think it's best that you don't tell him anything."
The third party will agree, and we will say our good-byes, and I will walk away. And I will never see or hear from them again either. This last piece of paper, this letter ... It does not matter where it goes, whether it's in the trash or back to it's hidden resting place on the shelf. It will linger.
I won't say from who by name, I won't say from where it came, I won't say the circumstances in which it was written because I AIN'T CRAZY. It just had a few lines of note on it ...
I know these have all been quick and sparse, but that's just how it is. Not much happens, nothing to write about. It's also because I prefer to write alone, which actually allows me very little time to do so.
You're who I'm thinking of. The time to spare is plentiful and it keeps drawing back to you. I miss you.
How can this be? How can one who once took the time out to say to another "I miss you and I am lonely without you" not be in the picture anymore? Just when you think you get over something, you hear that little voice of depression in the back of your mind. "Did you forget about me? Well I'm here and you are still my captive." Nothing remains of him because he's not here anymore. He never lived here, he had some things here but they are gone (I returned them to him). There have been others who have also been here, but nothing remains of them either. Why this deep sorrow? And now neither party will speak to one another, I have been replaced with someone else. Chances are the one who replaced me will be replaced as well eventually, but that will be a real disaster to unfold because she lives with him and all I offered in terms of support was a hoodie and a pair of socks. And the replacement says that we are not allowed to speak. He said he was sorry to be so blunt but he agreed. I bowed out. Far be it from me to bother anyone.
One day he will be alone again, perhaps he will think of me. And he will want to see me, a part of him surely will. Just maybe he will reach out, once again when he is at his most vulnerable and helpless, or he will get a third party to inform me of something when the next disaster strikes. That third party will say "Come with me", but I will say the hardest part of this revelation, my voice heavy and husky with emotion and torn feeling, my intellectual self clashing with the ego, which is "I can't."
"He will need you," the third party will say, imploring me to reconsider.
"No he won't," I will say. "He did once, but he won't anymore. But when you see him (third party) tell him ... No, nevermind. I think it's best that you don't tell him anything."
The third party will agree, and we will say our good-byes, and I will walk away. And I will never see or hear from them again either. This last piece of paper, this letter ... It does not matter where it goes, whether it's in the trash or back to it's hidden resting place on the shelf. It will linger.
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